


Taking Turns Being Strong

by writingrach76



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hospitals, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Major Illness, minor homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingrach76/pseuds/writingrach76
Summary: One day while Sherlock is babysitting her, Rosie becomes really sick and he ends up taking her to the hospital. This isn't some normal cold or flu that most children get, and Sherlock and John end up leaning on each other to get through this stressful event. There are tears, feelings come out, and everyone loves each other a lot.(I'm sorry this is a horrible summary, I promise it's better written than this is)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really nervous to post this for some reason. I've been working on this for months now and it's still not done, but I couldn't wait any longer to at least get the first chapter out there, so here we are. I never expected to write a post season 4 fanfiction, but here we are. I'm not from the UK and I haven't had anyone from the UK read it so if there's errors they're all mine. I'm also not a doctor so if something is inaccurate that's my fault too. Anyway, enough of my rambling. Onto the story.

“Sherlock!” The doors on the inside of the A&E waiting room burst open and John Watson barreled through them, still dressed in his surgery scrubs, blood splattered across his front and face mask dangling from one ear-completely breaking hospital protocol that required the removal of such garments before being seen by any patients. Sherlock leapt to his feet, opening his mouth as if to say something but John slammed into him, wrapping his arms around the detective and pressing his face against his chest. Sherlock froze for a moment, speechless and unsure of his role as they stood, embraced, in the mostly empty A&E waiting room. John smelled of plastic and disinfectant and the slightest bit like blood and death. Sherlock ached for the version of John that smelled like tea and woollen jumpers and the surprisingly expensive soap that he used with some generic name Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember, that John was endlessly comforting in everything he was. This John was still comforting, but in a distanced clinical sort of comfort, disinfectant and the brave face of a surgeon in the way of the complete comfort that Sherlock needed from him. 

“I’m sorry John. I didn’t know what to do,-” Sherlock started frantically but he cut off as John shook his head against his chest.

“Shut up Sherlock.” He pulled Sherlock even closer to him. Was it even possible to be closer before they molded together? He wasn’t sure but he was willing to try if it meant John would be a part of him forever. “It’s not your fault,” 

“We don’t know that. What if-”

“No Sherlock. I’m serious. This isn’t your fault. Children get sick. Sometimes they even have to go to the hospital. Neither of us could have prevented this, okay?” Sherlock leaned his head against John’s, nodding slightly. They were quiet, holding their embrace in the A&E waiting room until John reluctantly pulled away. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, rubbing his hands against Sherlock’s arms. He shook his head, and held out a clipboard to John.

“They won’t tell me anything about her condition because I’m not related to her. Can you do her paperwork? I tried to pretend I was, but I don’t know your family medical history...” He trailed off, embarrassed, grateful when John silently accepted the forms without any quips that he could just deduce it or about how good of a liar Sherlock normally was. His heart surged knowing that John knew he was in too much of a panic to deduce much of anything, and Sherlock didn’t want attention drawn to it. He despised the lapse in physical contact as he resumed his seat and John took the one beside him, clipboard balanced in his lap.

“So how did it start, anyway? She was fine this morning when I left for work, her normal cheerful self. She threw blocks at my head for god's sakes.” John questioned, trying to keep his tone casual as he began checking off boxes.

“Not sure. We played this morning, and she went down for her nap fine but she wasn’t fine when she woke up. But I’ve cross referenced multiple sources and-,” He broke off as John’s hand clasped his forearm and slid down to take his hand, his thumb rubbing soft circles into Sherlock’s skin. 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here on WebMD and Mayo Clinic trying to diagnose Rosie.” Sherlock didn’t answer, watching John’s thumb instead. It was comforting, what he was doing, and Sherlock didn’t ever want the contact to stop. He wished their hands could fuse together as one so that he’d never have to let go of John. (He was sensing a pattern in his need for comfort from John with this increase in touching between them. How would he ever survive once Rosie was better and John no longer touched him like this? He could only relive every moment in his mind palace so many times.)

“What were her symptoms?” John sat the clipboard on an empty chair beside him and angled himself towards Sherlock. He still didn’t let go of his hand.

“Isn’t it just as bad for you to try to diagnose your own daughter as it is for me to search the internet for an amateur diagnosis?” One withering look from John wiped the faintest of smiles off of Sherlock’s face and he took a deep breath.

“She was coughing, deeply, it sounded horrible. She was incredibly hot to the touch and she was lethargic for just waking up from her mid morning nap. Mrs. Hudson and Mummy both said that the cough alone was enough reason for her to see a doctor and I checked her pulse out of habit and it was racing. All symptoms leading towards-,”

“Myocarditis.” John murmured softly, staring at their hands now too. “Which can come on incredibly suddenly in infants and appear to be flu like symptoms if you aren't looking too closely.” He dropped his head in his hands with a heavy sigh. “Did you really call your mother to ask her about Rosie? You never call your mother voluntarily.” Sherlock could hear the amusement in John’s voice and could almost see the small smirk that would be on John’s lips if he raised his head. He was glad that he caused John enough amusement to still smile through the worry about Rosie.

“It was a necessary evil at the time. It has been a very long time since Mrs. Hudson has had any experience with children and I wanted a second opinion,” John peeked at Sherlock between his hands.

“You panicked is what you’re saying. And you called your mother!” Sherlock looked away, refusing to dignify that with an answer, and trying to suppress the worry bubbling up inside of him. He wasn’t quite successful. 

“What if it was my mold cultures?” John raised his head then, an eyebrow quirked upwards in a silent question. “What if they made her sick? I thought I kept her an adequate distance away from them at all times but maybe-,”

“Oh, no Sherlock, no.” John’s voice was incredibly soft and tender. John rarely, if ever, spoke to him like that, and Sherlock frantically filed it away in his mind palace to reply constantly. “It wasn’t that. I don’t think either of us could have done anything to stop this from happening. She could have gotten a virus or infection anywhere. Please stop thinking like that. This is _not_ your fault.” He’d stopped rubbing circles into the back of Sherlock’s hand in favor of gripping it tighter, but Sherlock wished he’d start up again. The repetition was somewhat grounding.

“Will I still be watching her?” It was so quiet, and spoken to the floor, that Sherlock wasn’t sure that John would have heard him. When he risked a sideways glance at him, John was staring at him in disbelief. 

“Of course you will. I don’t trust her with anyone as much as I do with you, even when you take her to crime scenes to investigate murders. You would never intentionally put her in harm’s way and if you did, I know that you’ll keep her safe, especially with Moriarty and his web still out there...” The unspoken mention of Sherlock’s two years away to wipe out the web (Unsuccessful due to numerous kidnappings, sessions of torture, and a slight miscalculation on his affection for one John Watson) hung between them for a moment and Sherlock wished he could grab John and pull him close enough that their persons began to intermix so that John could feel exactly how desperate and alone Sherlock felt without John during those years. (That pattern again. Was it normal to feel such a desperate need to completely _consume_ the person you were in love with? Sherlock had no idea. More data needed?). He squeezed John’s hand, unsure of what else to do to communicate anything that he was feeling and John squeezed back in acknowledgement. He let go then, despite Sherlock’s quiet sound of protest, and took the paperwork up to the receptionist. He had a quiet conversation with her for a moment before returning to his seat beside Sherlock. Their hands found their way back to each other and Sherlock wasn’t sure who had initiated it first this time, or if they had both done it at the same time. 

“John,” Sherlock said his name quietly and John’s eyes flicked up to his in acknowledgement. Sherlock loved that, there was no unnecessary speaking with John. They could communicate with looks alone when the need struck them. “How aren’t you worried about this? Myocarditis is especially rare in infants and her still developing immune system may not be able to-,” 

“Sherlock, you need to stop right there. If you keep that up you’re going to play a game of what ifs with yourself until you’re exhausted.” John said sternly, forcing Sherlock to break off and stare at him, fear written across his usually impassive, cold features. He began to rub circles against Sherlock’s hand again hoping it might help to calm the detective down. “Everything that you’re saying might be true, but essentially those are just statistics. In the end, this is all up to her and how well she’s able to fight it. I can’t make any accurate predictions or judgements when I haven’t seen her, or heard confirmation of a diagnosis or her current condition. That doesn’t mean that I’m not worried sick about her, but I am a doctor and a soldier, remember? I’m trained to remain calm, or at least pretend to be calm, in situations like this. Doesn’t mean that I’m not working to not overthink what might happen if she can’t get through this. I’m just pretty good at being able to look like I’m not.” Sherlock’s brain was in overdrive, calmed by John’s steady presence and warm hand in his, while simultaneously whipping through all possible outcomes of the situation at lightning speed. It was dizzying and he leaned his head against John’s as they sat quietly in silence, borrowing strength from the other, just as they always did. He really wanted a cigarette.

“Oi faggot why don’t you get off your arse and treat some of the patients who’ve been waiting for hours like you’re paid to do?” Sherlock’s head jerked up to shoot the speaker his customary deadly stare, but John had beat him to it, breaking their clasped hands as he got to his feet and took a step towards the woman and her son sitting in the middle of the A&E waiting room. They’d been speaking in hushed tones, so there was no way that she knew why John was here. The room fell silent as John fixed her with his stern soldier’s stare.

“I’m a _trauma surgeon_. I only deal with your bratty son’s sprained wrist, which could have been dealt with at your regular physician on Monday _by the way_ , if we’re short of staff or it’s a particularly slow day in the trauma centre. Instead, I have singlehandedly saved three lives in the last nine hours and lost one more. I just came out of surgery not ten minutes ago, only to learn that my nine month old daughter was just admitted to the PICU and I could potentially never see her again. I think I deserve a ten minute break while no one’s life is in immediate danger to find out what happened because she was perfectly fine this morning when I left for work. Next time, don’t just assume that your A&E doctor is in their office sitting on their arse because I can personally tell you that most shifts I don’t even get a moment to sit down. Our A&E wait time is under forty five minutes, if you can’t handle waiting that long for a doctor when your son is in no immediate danger then I suggest you take him somewhere else next time. In fact, you _should_ take him somewhere else next time. We don’t want your homophobia in our hospital. Come on, Sherlock. There’s a more comfortable chair in my office you can have, I’ve got another surgery.” _God_ , Sherlock loved this man. The room was deadly silent except for the pager that John pulled out of his scrubs pocket, silencing the beeping. He took Sherlock’s hand, tugged him out of his chair, and led him through the interior doors into the corridors of the A&E. Sherlock couldn’t help replaying John’s little speech on a loop in his mind palace. He would have expected John to immediately latch onto the gay slur that the woman had used. He should have leapt at the chance to chant his mantra of ‘not gay!’ at anyone in the room that would listen. Instead, John had leapt down the woman’s throat at her implied insult that John was not a good doctor, and her hatred of homosexuals in general, and a sense of pride surged through Sherlock’s chest. John was the best doctor he knew and that woman deserved what she’d gotten. 

“Sherlock. Hey, where’d you go? I asked you a question.” Sherlock blinked, clearing the memory from his vision, faced, instead, with a sheepishly smiling John Watson.

“Thanks for coming back down to Earth. I’d said, do you think it was a bit much? I was trying not to over do it but I snapped a bit at the end.” He led them into a small, windowless office with a desk taking up most of the space, one comfortable rolling chair behind it and two plush chairs in front of it. There were medical books on the wall and a pile of paperwork on the desk beside a desktop computer. Sherlock was forced to let go of John’s hand as John yanked off the top of his scrubs, throwing them into a hamper, strategically placed behind the open door, full of soiled clothing and scrubs. He pulled a fresh top out of a drawer of his desk and Sherlock averted his eyes, trying not to stare at John in simply a practically see through, tight white t-shirt that clung to him in all the right places, embellishing the muscles he’d gotten in the army and worked continuously to keep despite his insistence of hiding them behind lumpy jumpers. He wasn’t allowed to stare, Sherlock had to remind himself firmly as he cleared his throat and forced himself to reply to John. 

“She deserved it. When not overreacting over her child or in public, she occupies most of her time by speaking her mind without a filter, allowing any racist, homophobic or otherwise offensive comment leave her mouth unheeded. She has driven her husband to drinking due to her behavior and her refusal for him to divorce her. Someone had to attempt to put her in her place. I would have expected you to ignore her.” John lifted the corner of his mouth in a half hearted smirk.

“I guess I’ve just dealt with enough shit recently, I’m not about to act as if she’d got it right when she had everything all wrong. Oh fuck.” His pager was beeping again and John fumbled to silence it. “I’ve really got to go. You can stay here until they come for you with news about Rosie. I told the receptionist you’ll be in here so they should be fine with keeping you in the loop even though you’re not related to her. Have you eaten today?” John paused halfway out the door, his concern for Sherlock paramounting any patient who could be dying. Sherlock was having a hard time processing John’s question, his brain stuck on the phrase ‘when she had everything all wrong.’ Did that mean _everything_? Was John trying to insinuate more? Was he trying to tell Sherlock without actually telling him? Or was he merely implying that the woman had gotten it wrong in assuming that he, John, was gay? He wasn’t sure, and he struggled to find an answer to John’s question as he patiently waited, ignoring his pager which was beeping more frantically.

“Not sure. Did you make me eat breakfast?” Sherlock glanced uncertainly at John, trying to keep up appearances and not let him see the inner turmoil that John’s words were evoking inside of Sherlock. John’s face softened even as he sighed.

“All you had was a bit of toast because I forced you. Go get something from the hospital cafeteria. Their coffee isn’t half bad and I’d eat their muffins anyday. That’s _not_ a suggestion, Sherlock. When I come back you better have eaten something.” He disappeared through the door and reappeared just as fast, darting back into the room to press a brief kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Please eat, love. I don’t need both of the people that I care about most in the world admitted into the A&E in the same night. I’ll see you in a bit.” And then John was gone for good this time, off to save someone else’s life and Sherlock’s world was turning upside down, his head was spinning, as he still felt the lingering ghost of John’s lips against his forehead. They had never done anything like that before. His mind palace frantically filed the kiss away even as it repeated the endearment, love, over and over again.

There was the hugging in the waiting room, the hand holding, the rubbing circles in his skin, asking about his eating, and now the kiss on the forehead. He couldn’t figure it out. Was John finding comfort in his time of stress and grief in the only way he knew how, intimate physical contact? Or was this simply something they started doing now-the kissing-just as the hand holding was definitely becoming a more common event. He wasn’t sure. He definitely needed more data about everything, and a cigarette. But first, a trip to the cafeteria for coffee and a muffin for John, because he’d told Sherlock that he was one of the two people that he cared most about in the entire world, and Sherlock could die happy right then. (Though, if he was being honest, he wanted to hear John’s voice calling him love for the rest of eternity.). 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly sorry that it's taken me literally a year to update this. Senior year turned out to be a lot worse than I thought it was and I've taken on a full time job for the summer, and I know those are kind of excuses but I'm here now. I have the next chapter somewhat planned out and a vague idea of what I'd like to happen after that. I'm hoping to get this fic almost finished before I start college. My first day is August 23rd, so we'll see. Again, I'm so sorry that it's taken so long to update this story, but I promise that I haven't abandoned this story and I don't have any plans to.

Sherlock waited ten minutes before leaving John’s office. He hated possibly missing a nurse coming in with news about Rosie, but he knew that John would scold him if he found out that he hadn’t gone to get food. (Not that Sherlock planned on eating said food, but keeping up appearances was important with John.) On his way to the hospital cafeteria he passed a door to a fire escape and on impulse ducked outside, propping it open with a stray rock on the fire escape. With fumbling fingers he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his lighter, lighting one of them and taking a deep inhale. He coughed, his lungs unaccustomed to the smoke after having gone cold turkey several months ago, just after the withdrawal effects from his last relapse had died down. His hands stopped shaking on the second inhale, and on the third the weight in his chest began to slowly uncurl itself from where it was wrapped around his heart like a vice. Of course, nicotine was nowhere near as powerful as his drug of choice, but he’d sworn himself off of coke and heroin for life. John would take Rosie away from him and never let him see her again. He would never be able to see _John_ again. At least he was not so immune yet that the nicotine had no effect on him. 

With steadier hands, he pulled out his phone to check it. Texts from Mummy and a missed call from Mrs Hudson. Tedious, he hated phone calls, but knew that she’d expect a returned call. One more deep lungful of his cigarette and then he called her, leaning against the railing of the fire escape watching the smoke curling off of his cigarette.

“Sherlock, luv, how are you?” Mrs. Hudson answered on the second ring, she must have had her phone on her. Surprising, rarely ever did she carry it on her person no matter how much John nagged her about it in case she fell again.

“They wouldn’t let me see her and I couldn’t do her paperwork and I don’t know how she’s doing,” It spilled out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to gather what he wanted to say into something more comprehensible and put together. 

“Oh darling, it’ll be alright. Have you seen John? They’ll keep him up to date for sure.” Mrs. Hudson cooed at him and Sherlock felt his hackles rise. She was missing his _point_. 

“It doesn’t matter if they tell John because John is still on duty and cannot tell me. I don’t understand. He found me in the waiting room and he gave his permission for them to keep me up to date but that doesn’t seem to be good enough. So what if I’m not biologically related to her, I care for her all of the time and John gave his permission-,” He had to stop as his voice started to crack and he took another inhale of his cigarette, flicking the ash off of the fire escape watching it sail away on the wind.

“That’s how the law works, dear. But it will be okay. Rosie’s a strong little girl. She’s going to pull through just fine.” Sherlock hoped so, _god_ he hoped so. But he had absolutely no way of knowing that for sure and he hated it. 

“I want John,” His voice broke and the tears were welling up in his eyes. He really really didn’t want to cry on the phone with Mrs. Hudson but he didn’t know what to do anymore. He always had John to help with the emotional side of things. 

“Don’t cry, love. John will be off work soon, and Rosie’s going to be fine. Only a bit longer you have to wait now. What are you doing to pass the time?”

“When I was in the A &E waiting room I was trying to find a diagnosis for Rosie. John showed up and took me back to his office. He told me to get something to eat in the cafeteria but I’m on the fire escape smoking.” He had to pull the phone slightly away from his ear at Mrs. Hudson’s shriek of his name.

“Sherlock Holmes! Put the cigarettes away. You know how much it hurts John to know you’ve been smoking again. You were doing so well, too.” He tried not to shift guiltily. He knew. He knew goddamn it but his fingers had been twitching since he’d sat down to wait in the waiting room hours ago, and cigarettes were the least harmful thing he could easily obtain.

“It’s not like I can get high, and I needed something grounding.” He muttered but did as she bid and dropped the cigarette to the fire escape, squishing it out with the heel of his shoe and then kicking it down to the street far below.

“I’ll tell you what. John introduced me to this new game on my mobile, you play against someone you know and try to get a larger score by making words with the letters they give you. It’s kind of like scrabble. I’ll send you the link and we can play while you wait. That’ll keep you distracted.” Normally he hated _hated_ games on his mobile. They took up valuable space on his phone, they dulled the mind, they created endless distractions and prevented him from performing at his best, but that was exactly what he needed if he was honest with himself.

“Okay,”

“I’ll let you go, but you keep me updated when you get news, young man. I don’t want to be the last one to know something.” Her telling him off felt almost worse than his own mother scolding him.

“John or I will call you,” Sherlock promised before hanging up. He stared at his phone. With a deep breath he opened the messages from his mother. Best to get it all over with at once.

 **>** Lockie how are you doing?

 **>** Do let us know when you’ve gotten to the hospital, your father and I are quite worried. 

**>** Make sure that you tell John that you called us so that one of you will update us.

 **>** How are you doing, darling?

The last text had been sent less than half an hour ago. Leave it to his mother not to let it go with just one text. This wasn’t even his child, or their grandchild. (Why did that make the ache in his chest come back? He’d never even wanted children in the first place. What was changing now?)

They took her back and I haven’t gotten any updates yet. Will text when I do. SH **<**

 **>** But how are YOU, Lockie?

Her reply came almost instantly and Sherlock...he didn’t know. He wanted John and Rosie and Baker Street back. He hated this stress and change. 

Hospitals are tedious. SH **<**

Obligatory text to his mother taken care of. John should be proud of him. Right. John wasn’t there and because John wasn’t there he had sent him off on a quest for food in the hospital cafeteria. His transport would reject food currently, but he could get a coffee and something that would keep for John, he would be hungry at the end of his shift.

Down the halls, through the doors, up stairs, ignoring the elevators - tiny moving claustrophobic traps, never use them-, up more stairs, into the hall, check the signs, up more stairs, and enter the loud, echoey cafeteria. He wanted to turn around and leave the moment he’d entered. He wanted to find a hole and bury himself in it. Return to Baker Street, go to bed, and pull the blankets over his head the way he used to when he was small and trying to block out everything that was too much. The smells of food assaulted his nose and his transport almost protested - his stomach lurched and coiled into an even tighter knot at the thought of food- and he suppressed a gag. In and out he reminded himself. He was here for John, he could do this. 

He got into line between two giggling children not much older than twelve, a few notes clutched in their hands. A parent watched them from a table with drinks and trash littering it. Sent back for another snack or something for someone else. Parent, no sibling in the hospital nothing serious or the children would be more subdued. The line was moving slowly and he shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to calm the shaking. He fingered his lighter wondering if he could get away with sneaking out to have another cigarette or if John would already be able to smell his dirty secret on him. Probably. John had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to Sherlock and cigarettes. The children in front of him squealed at something they’d said to each other and he tried not to flinch noticeably. He wanted to be back out on the fire escape, back in John’s office, back in Baker Street, just anywhere where it wasn’t quite so loud and forcing him to be so _present_.

John. He’d think of John while he waited. Sentiment was hateful, terrible, weakening, but he couldn’t stop it anymore when it came to John. He made everything not so overwhelming. He made the noise quieter. He made Sherlock’s head quieter. He was a steady presence by his side that Sherlock could never do without again. Not after his time in Serbia. He rolled his shoulders unconsciously thinking of those scars. He still hadn’t told John. Well. He’d told him small bits and pieces but nothing that would lead towards John inferencing that. John deserved to know, but Sherlock couldn’t risk him being upset and leaving. He needed John to make it quiet and to minimize the force of hateful words as they slammed into Sherlock at lightning speed in a crowd or at a crime scene. John was a lifeline and Sherlock didn’t know if he could even breathe if John Watson walked out of his life.

“Sir? Were you getting something?” Sherlock jolted back to the present to see the cashier staring at him. He quickly stared at the menu and ordered a coffee and two muffins. He may not have any plans to eat his muffin but pretenses were very important with John Watson. Sherlock collected his purchases and made his way back to John’s office, forcing himself not to make a stop at the door leading to the fire escape again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you liked it! And if you want to talk about Sherlock or any of my other fandoms feel free to drop by my [tumblr](writing-scars.tumblr.com). :)


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